


The No Good Very Bad Day(s)

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Drowning, Gen, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, One Shot Collection, Seizures, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump, sick jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:35:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22626457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: this is the start of a collection of individual one-shots of angsty hurt/comfort fics from The Witcher.  these fics will pull from all forms fo the witcher such as the books, games, and the TV series.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 12
Kudos: 198





	1. Waterlogged Witcher

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy and please bear in mind that everyone perceives and writes Geralt and other characters from the saga differently and that some aspects might be out of character if you have not read the books or played the games.

From where Jaskier was watching, the fight seemed to be in the bag for Geralt; the Kikimore had been fast and nimble but it was now missing a few of its limbs and it staggered under its own weight. The swamp was freezing and Jaskier could have seen his own breath in the air if he were not holding it in anticipation.

Geralt, on the other hand, would have disagreed with jaskier’s “ _in the bag_ ” comment. The Kikimore warrior was separated from its colony, which meant it was unpredictable and dangerous. He had been blasted with its acid when he’d moved too slowly and he could feel it eating through his shirt and into the flesh on his shoulder and chest. The insectoid refused to back down from the fight, pushing Geralt to his limit as the acid corroded away at his skin and made every movement almost unbearable.

The two danced in a flurry of claws and blades for a moment longer before an inhuman screech pierced the frigid air of the swamp. 

The Kikimore staggered. Geralt stood underneath its belly with his sword jammed into its thorax all the way to the hilt. Jaskier studied the climactic scene for a moment, capturing the feat for his next ballad. He could picture the reaction of his audience at the great slaying of-

The Kikimore fell with a splash as its weight pulled it down into the swamp, the soft ground underneath it giving way as it sank into the decaying plant matter and muck. Ajskeri stopped in his hazy dream to look around for Geralt.

“Geralt?” he called, tentatively taking a step towards the carcass slowing being engulfed by swamp water. The ground under his boot squelched and when his whole weight was put on it, sank under a layer of grime and dead leaves. “Bugger, this swamp is dreadfully oozy,” he took in a deep breath before calling out again. “Geralt? Where are you?” 

The only sound that greeted his ears was the sound of his boots making a loud sucking sound as he pulled his foot free from the hungry swamp.

He trudged closer to the dead Kikimore, using the toe of his boot to poke the creature. It did not stir. 

Jaskier let out a held breath and once again looked around for his witcher friend. “Dammit Geralt, Where are you?”

The poet played the last moment he’d been Geralt over in his mind. The witcher had stabbed the beat in the stomach and then it had fallen. 

_Surely Geralt… no... The witcher was too fast to get caught under the monster_

“I swear Geralt if you’re squished under a Kikimore I'll-” the man was unsure of what he would do, but it would not be pleasant. 

Jaskier walked around the monster looking for the best place to start lifting when a hand caught his attention. A human hand. 

_Geralt!_

Jaskier tugged and pulled, his feet slipping on the soft ground. He was knee-deep in swamp water which meant Geralt had no way of breathing while trapped under the Kikimore. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier panted as he finally pulled great free, the motion sent the bard slipping and falling on his ass in freezing swamp water. “Fuck this stupid-” his voice faltered at the sight of the witcher. “Geralt?” he asked, voice small and feeble at his blue-lipped and deathly pale friend.

Jaskier scrambled to his feet and supported Geralt’s head above the water, the witcher looked like a corpse, his face covered in sediment and blood. 

Jaskier dragged the witcher out of the water and onto a small section of semi-dry land. His fingers shook with uncertainty as his mind raced. Geralt wasn’t breathing. 

With a renewed strength Jaskier stripped the soaked armour from Geralt’s chest and shoulders and promptly pressed his head to the witcher’s chest. There was no rise or fall and there was no beat of a heart either. 

“Shit!”

Jaskier had made many jokes about saving a drowning maiden by kissing her back to life, but he never thought he’d do so to Geralt. 

In the position he was in, Geralt’s head was tipped back and a sliver of the white of his eyes could be seen as his eyelids drooped. Jaskier sucked in a huge breath fo hair and, without hesitation, pinched Geralt’s nose and pressed his lips to the witcher’s. 

At first Jaskier was ecstatic because the witcher’s chest loved under his hands. But as soon as Jaskier stopped, Geralt’s chest fell and no more movement could be seen. Jaskier tried, again and again, to feed air Geralt’s lungs. 

Eventually Jaksier though there might be something stuck in Geralt’s lungs preventing him from breathing. With a few forcefull thumps to Geralt’s chest, the witcher was convulsing; watery bile bubbling over his lips. 

Jaskier hurridly turned Geralt onto his side as the witcher vomited up water. He was still unconscious but he was coming around, his eyes jerking under their lids. 

“Come on Geralt,” Jaskier pleaded, feeling relieved as Geralt took in a gasping breath as his yellow eyes finally snapped open. He instantly started coughing and heaving, bringing up more and more fluid as he emptied his lungs and stomach. Jaskier encouraged him softly all the while, holding back Geralt’s already dirtied hair as he vomited again.

At long last he seemed out of harm’s way, the colour returning his lips and a little to his face. 

“What-” the witcher tried to speak but his words were severed by a vicious round of coughing that ended in dry heaves.

Jaskier explained quickly, only stopping to rub Geralt’s back when another coughing fit gripped his lungs.

After a few moments of silence, Geralt staggered to his feet despite jaskier’s protests. Using his iron sword he cut the kikimore into pieces, pausing every once and a while to cough violently. Eventually Geralt was able to retrieve his sword and they started the long trek back to the town.

As they continued it was as if the life was draining from Geralt, his limbs felt like lead and it was hard to pick up his feet, even when the gate to the town was only a few feet away. His chest ached with each shallow breath and darkness was simmering at the edge of his vision. his shoulder ached miserably, but it was only pink and puffy where the acid had splashed him, the wound no longer serious. The only thing that kept him on his feet was Jaskier trying to support his much larger frame. 

“Com’on Geralt, there’s an inn right over there. Let’s get something warm into you,” Jaskier said, leading Geralt to the inn. Geralt only wheezed in response.

Geralt remembered little of what happened next, only coming back to semi-consciousness when he felt himself falling. Jaskier let out a yelp and another pair of hands grabbed him and hoisted im back on his feet. His vision swam as he was helped pitifully up the stairs, two voices raising in concern and protest when he tried to walk by himself.

He was so goddamn cold, such an incredible contrast to his usual blazing temperature. He was shivering even after Jaskier had wrapped blankets and furs around him. 

Hushed words were spoken and then a sudden heat hit his face and warm light filled the room. Someone had started a fire a few paces from his pathetic form. 

Hands ran through his hair and he fell into unconsciousness.

He awoke with a start, his chest ingulfed in fiery pain. 

“There you go, get it all up.”

_Jaskier_

The poet was rubbing the spot between his shoulders, his movements calm and gentle. When Geralt tried to sit up from his position leaning over the side of the bed Jaskier pushed him back down.

He realized a moment later why as he heaving up a mouthful of water.

With a groan, Geralt wiped his mouth on his arm. “What happened?” he croaked. His memories from the past few hours were fuzzy at best. 

Jaskier immediately went into a speel about saving the witcher from certain death and then dragging his body back to the inn. “- the innkeeper, lovely man, helped me bring you to your room. You were so delirious that you tried to walk up the stairs on your own. Lord knows that you’d only have a broken nose from slamming your face on the stairs if we weren’t there to help you.”

“Thank you,” Geralt whispered, his voice scratchy from the abuse his throat had suffered. 

“Oh? What did you say Geralt? I couldn't hear you,” the poet jested, his smile falling as once again the witcher heaved over the side of the bed, this time bringing up nothing. A small relief. 

“I-” 

“I heard you, I was only bluffing. Let’s get you something to eat to hopefully settle your stomach, shall we?”

Geralt managed a small nod as Jaskier helped him into a sitting position. 

“Thank you,” he called out gruffly to Jaskier as the poet made for the door.

“Just don't make me do it again,” the bard replied with a sad smile before leaving to find some soup or even a weak stew.


	2. Rest now, travel later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A human's endurance to go without food fucking sucks (Jaskier whump/ sickfic)

Coin had been scarce for the past few weeks, and food had been more so. Jaskier could feel his stomach eating away at itself as he trudged after Geralt. The witcher had dismounted his horse but hadn’t dropped the quick pace they had maintained all day. Jaskier’s legs were aching and if he paused his strides, he could feel them wobbling under his weight. It was better to press forward and find food than to go slow and waste away. 

Geralt would check over his shoulder every so often, only to grimace at how far behind the bard was. It was not his fault his human legs could only carry him so far on so little sustenance. After hours of this, Geralt finally slowed his pace, allowing Jaskier to catch up. his legs were now untrustworthy and shaky, making Jaskier brace himself against roach when the gound seemed to fall away under his feet as he walked. 

Geralt attempted a joke by saying something about how roach pitied him, but the words fell on jaskier’s deaf ears. He was too focused on the pounding headache that had made itself known and putting one foot in front of the other. 

“We’re taking a break,” Geralt had stated suddenly, pulling Jaskier from his swimming thoughts. 

“What?” he asked blearily, looking up from the ground only to see Geralt’s concerned expression. 

“It’s getting dark and you’re tired,” he said plainly as he led roach off the path slightly where they could make camp just within the treeline. 

Jaskier’s mouth hung open slightly in shock. “But..”

“You haven’t eaten in a long time Jaskier,” Geralt said.

_As if the growling of his stomach wasn’t enough to already tell him that._

“I suppose your right, my legs might give out if we keep going,” he admitted, taking a few staggering steps towards the witcher. His lute twanged unharmonically when he promptly sat down on the grass. The poor instrument had been neglected over the last few days as hunger and lack of rest made jaskier’s fingers slow and clumsy.

Geralt set off to find some food while Jaskier prepared his bedroll.

By the time the witcher had returned, Jaskier was asleep. his lute was cradled to his chest as a young child might cradle a favourite blanket or doll. Geralt cracked a fond smile that he would have later denied if anyone had seen. He ate a quarter of the berried he had found and one of the small rabbits he had managed to snare. The remainder of the food he wrapped in cloth for Jaskier in the morning. 

It was far from sunrise when Jaskier bolted awake, sweat dripping from his brow as he sucked in lungfuls of air. His head ached like he had been drinking his weight in whisky and his stomach felt like it ha become a barren desert; heat prickling up the back of his spine and the crown of his head. His vision was no better, everything swimming in and out of focus as he tried to blink away the dizziness. Snippets of his nightmare still permeated his mind; the phantom feeling of his throat swelling and the taste of copper in his mouth. 

“Jaskier?” 

The sudden voice made him jump, his hands instinctively reaching for his throat. 

Geralt towered over him, eyes wide and pupils dilated. The witcher kneeled beside his bedroll and reached out a tentative hand. “Are you alright?” 

Jaskier twitched, his arm jerking out to grab onto Geralt, his eyes wide with fear. His voice was faltering as he tried to speak but nothing coherent came out, his tongue too stubborn to move properly. The vision of Geralt doubled as his eyes crossed and rolled back into his head.

“Fuck! Jaskier can you hear me?” Geralt demanded but the bard had fainted.

“Fucking humans and their stupid fucking weak bodies,” Geralt hissed as he gently rested Jaskier back on his bedroll, the poet’s heard rolling sickly in his unconsciousness. He snatched the berried he had saved and quickly returned to jaskier’s side. Hopefully the sweet fruit would give the bard enough energy to get to the next town. 

Geralt didn’t care if he had to pay top-shelf prices for half-decent food, the bard needed it and he was more than willing to do contracts in return for rations.

Jaskier was twitching in his bedroll. At first only a jerk of his fingers of his leg kicked out instinctively, but then they morphed into full-body tremors as if his body had been possessed. Geralt had heard the rumours of such things, but he didn’t believe them. During the trial of grasses, many young withers experience what Vessimir had called ‘fits’. Geralt had experienced them for weeks after his extended trials and had helped lambert though some of his after he passed his trials. 

With a heavy heart, Geralt watched as the fit slowly passed and Jaskier became still; his eyes rolled open after a few moments, staring blankly up at the canopy of leaves before falling shut again.

The bard was conscious enough to swallow down the berries Geralt fed him, making sure to wait a few minutes before feeding another. Jaskier hadn’t eaten for days and they couldn’t afford for him to vomit up the food they had.

The bard was trembling and sweaty by the time Geralt fed him the last berry. He looked ill but seemed more lucid than before, responding slightly to Geralt’s prodding fingers. The back of his head was sluggishly bleeding after he bashed it on the ground. The dark blood soaked into his bark hair, collecting dirt and pine needles from the forest floor. Geralt gently examined the area, taking are not to hold jaskier’s head as every so often another tremor shook his friend. The contraction of his muscles caused Jaskier to grunt or gasp suddenly, but eventually, the aftershocks faded and Jaskier lazily opened his eyes.

He was dazed and confused when he awoke. His head was pounding and he swore he could feel his brain smalling itself against the inside fo his skull with each beat of his heart. 

“F-fuck… Geralt?” he called out weakly, his voice breaking as he tried to push himself up. He was lying on the ground, his fine tunic dusty and covered in debris. Suddenly calloused fingers gently pressed him back into his bedroll before prodding at the back of is head. 

“What-” he started, trying again to sit up. This time he was pushed down with a little more force, the pressure of Geralt’s hands staying even after his back was pressed into his bedroll.

“Shh, Jaskier. You’re alright.”

The tone of Geralt’s voice was unusually soft for the gritty witcher, but Jaskier was too light-headed to grasp onto the tone. He was more focused on how his eyes felt ready to pop out of their sockets with each thought that passed through his brain. As someone with an ounce of creativity and as someone who made money off of audience participation, Jaskier had a great many thoughts. His vast and embellished vocabulary also meant his everyday dialogue was the polar opposite of Geralt’s. 

_His head hurt like a motherfucker_

“Sleep, you’ll feel better in a few hours.”

But Jaskier’s eyes were already closed and his consciousness coming to an end as Geralt spoke.


End file.
